Archive for the ‘Grief’ Category

Without a Sound

~ Wednesday, January 27th, 2016

1-27-2016 10-13-23 AMThe Fourth Sign of the Zodiac
-by Mary Oliver
Why should I have been surprised?
Hunters walk the forest
without a sound.
The hunter, strapped to his rifle,
the fox on his feet of silk,
the serpent on his empire of muscles—
all move in a stillness,
hungry, careful, intent.
Just as the cancer
entered the forest of my body,
without a sound.

The question is,
what will it be like
after the last day?
Will I float
into the sky
or will I fray
within the earth or a river—
remembering nothing?
How desperate I would be
if I couldn’t remember
the sun rising, if I couldn’t
remember trees, rivers; if I couldn’t
even remember, beloved,
your beloved name.

I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

Late yesterday afternoon, in the heat,
all the fragile blue flowers in bloom
in the shrubs in the yard next door had
tumbled from the shrubs and lay
wrinkled and fading in the grass. But
this morning the shrubs were full of
the blue flowers again. There wasn’t
a single one on the grass. How, I
wondered, did they roll back up to
the branches, that fiercely wanting,
as we all do, just a little more of

Don’t Speak to Me of Heartbreak

~ Tuesday, June 4th, 2013

Grief by Gail Mazur

Don’t speak to me of heartbreak, I have an argument
with habits of metaphor—it’s not the heart

In April I brought tulips white
pale green and orange in from the garden

you mean but the ineffable—character soul
locus of feeling—don’t tell me that muscle

and with his fine pen he drew page after
page of delicate ravishing tulips

is made whole by breaking—the thready beat
made stronger if ravaged, then repaired

In June plush peonies named for Paean
the physician to ancient gods

Could we salvage joy from each day loosening
Then July I brought the overabundance

of the Oriental lily’s perfume
our ravenous hold on the world?

his hand transfigured the rich ivory paper
Where could it be written,

to a garden room various edenic alive
why would anyone say, why would

a rabbi teach the heart survives by breaking?
August now and great maples tall oaks darken

and cool the garden so flowers know not to thrive
that in black ink my love may still shine bright